Truth, Justice and Time
by Shadowed Gold
Summary: One morning, he woke up a superhero. Jeopardy-prone blonde partners, spandex tights, and a dastardly plot all conspire to keep Ten having a very strange day.
1. Prologue: Strange Visitor

Author's Note: This fic is actually an old one, written two years ago to accompany an illustration for JesIdres's Whooligans contest. Which explains a couple…small plot points? Cleaned up and rereleased two years later, this fic provides your daily dose of crackfic.

* * *

Ooooh. Very uncomfortable, that.

The Doctor stretched, feeling his back pop rather unpleasantly as the muscles uncoiled after a long night spent sleeping in a posture oddly reminiscent of the quadruple-joined acrobats of Jubrox III. As he was never much for sleeping anyway, the Doctor's bed served mostly as a combination workbench, bookshelf and junk drawer. Only a vaguely toast-sized spot was kept clear for an exhausted Time Lord to curl up in. The Doctor maintained, however, that if he was going to do something so…so…_human_, it was going to be on his own damn terms, and besides, if a nine hundred year-old back couldn't have the occasional kink in it, whose back could? Even if his spine did feel like a wrong-twisted Slinky.

Come to think of it, where was his Slinky anyway? He hadn't seen that thing since—he cast his mind back—oh, it had to be decades by now. A full century, even. Maybe?

After indulging in a great, jaw-cracking yawn, the Doctor flung his long limbs out of bed, slithering to his feet as he scrubbed the back of his hand across bleary eyes. His pajama bottoms were sliding down his hips, and he sort of wondered where the top had got to. Rassilon, he couldn't remember being this hazy in the TARDIS-equivalent-to-morning since he'd last regenerated, and his whole brain had been collapsing then.

Blinking against the white fog trying to lay claim to his eyeballs, he stumbled muzzily to the bathroom. Without thought, he fumbled for the cold tap, splashing icy water on his face. He managed to soak almost all of his hair in the process, but it worked to bring him fully awake and to wash away the little icky crusty things gluing his lashes together.

Dripping and chilly, but with massive brain now in gear (mostly), the Doctor raised his head and grinned his wild grin at his own reflection. Didn't even need a shave. Though even soaking wet, his hair once again seemed to be experimenting with antigravity.

Blimey, it was quiet in here. Granted, his room was one of the quietest onboard, but he might at least expect to hear the old girl humming around him, the whirl of the Vortex through his time sense, even a companion or two wandering around lost and confused—no, wait though, this was Martha now, not given to shrieking when she was lost, though a swear word or two might filter down the hall from time to time—but it was almost eerily quiet. Brow furrowing in concentration, the Doctor realized that even his grand lady herself was silent in his mind. Wiping his face dry on his forearm in blatant defiance of the towel on the rack, the Doctor padded barefoot to the bedroom door, intent on heading to the console room to have a small chat with his suddenly coy ship. He opened the door—

And stopped.

Turned back to his room.

Back out.

Twisted, stuck his head into his bedroom, rapped on the wall. Solid.

Stuck his head back out into the impossible. Tapped tentatively on the incredibly impossible wall, squinted in supremely, completely impossible sunlight.

Sunlight.

There was definitely no sunlight on his TARDIS.

There was also no couch, fish tank with little yellow fish or kitchen on his TARDIS—well, at least not in the hallway outside his bedroom. And definitely no ragged bunch of flowers in an old…beer bottle? Was that a…oooh, nope, that was an old glass cola bottle. Which was a bit odd in and of itself though: he didn't like cola.

Eyes wide, the Doctor very nearly tiptoed out into the impossible living room, crossing to a wide picture window through which poured warm golden sunlight. Well, this really was something new. And quite, quite real. He could FEEL the sunlight on his skin, sense the timelines of creatures all around him passing in the blink of an eye (now that he thought about it, anyway, and why hadn't he sensed it before? Why hadn't he noticed that there were far, far too many humans in proximity for him to be on his TARDIS?), even hear, distantly, the growl and honk of car horns on the streets below.

Swiftly, as if it might bite him if he lingered too long, the Doctor reached out and thrust up the window, poking his head (and most of his torso, too) out into the early morning air. He was so far through that he was very nearly in danger of tumbling out entirely. He sniffed. Smog, humans, small fuzzy domestic animals, scrambled eggs burning, and dirt. Good, solid Earth dirt. Early Twenty-First Century, he'd guess, give or take a few decades.

"Morning, John!"

The Doctor blinked in surprise, glancing down to see…no, that couldn't be…._Jackie Tyler_ waving at him from the balcony below, sipping coffee and smiling like…like…well, like she liked him, and that was strange enough. Not to mention the whole _trapped-in-another-universe_ thing. Those minor details.

Pulling himself back into the completely impossible flat (he had to, as a car with an extremely distressed exhaust system managed to nearly choke him three floors up), the Doctor dodged to the coat rack by the door, diving into the pockets of his familiar brown trench and coming up with….nothing. No sonic screwdriver, no psychic paper, not even a single banana! He did, however, find the bottom, the lining, barely wrist-deep in. These weren't dimensionally transcendent pockets. These were perfectly ordinary pockets!

He was fully prepared to analyze this state of affairs, but before he could, something caught his eye. The sunlight had caught on the glimmer of a silver picture frame taking pride-of-place on the coffee table, but as much as he loved to investigate shiny objects, it was the photograph within that reduced him to a state of slack-jawed shock. It was himself, grinning brilliantly for the camera with his arm around a very familiar, equally glowing blonde who was at least several years older than she had been the last time he'd seen her. The last time he would ever see her. Below, engraved into the metal, were the words: _The Hottest Team in Town – Sigma Delta Chi Award For Journalism_. Stroking his fingers lightly over the glass covering the image of himself and his lost Rose, almost in a trance, the Doctor very nearly didn't notice the ringing telephone until it had already gone to the old-fashioned message machine.

_"…John Smith, leave a message at the sound of the tone and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. BEEP!"_

The Doctor had to admit, the part where he yelled "_Beep!_" into the phone did sound like him.

_"Smith!"_

His head snapped up so fast he was astonished his neck didn't break; he knew that voice.

"IF _you'd like to show up for work today…"_

He hadn't spoken to the man since, oooh…well, a long time by any reckoning...but the Doctor would know the clipped, authoritative voice of Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart anywhere.

_"…and for that matter, where in the hell is Tyler? I can't run a newspaper with my two best reporters haring off…"_

There seemed only one thing to do, really. He wasn't likely to find anything out just hanging around an impossible flat, and in his jimjams, no less. And besides, he was very, very interested to see why the Brig was going on about a newspaper. "Oh," he groaned softly, leaning up against the bubbling aquarium to address the quietly interested tropical fish, "Looks like I'm headed to work, then."

He grinned brightly, but the fish didn't care much about that. "Always fancied seeing how the news worked!"


	2. Chapter One: John Smith, Newspaperman?

Chapter One: John Smith, Newspaperman?

At least the specs were still in the non-transcendental coat pocket, and the Doctor slipped them on to better inspect the building rising before him, oblivious to the furious honking of cars having to swerve around the rumpled idiot standing smack in the middle of the road. London, as it turned out, seemed just as shaky on reality as the impossible flat and his equally impossible neighbor.

"They've got it all wrong, though!" he muttered to himself, craning his neck back at an extremely uncomfortable angle to inspect the sign. High above his head loomed a building topped by a giant (very inaccurate) steel representation of the Milky Way and the words "DAILY GALAXY" emblazoned in shiny metal on the roof. Within four seconds (Three point eight six one two, his time sense informed him smugly as he missed being run down by a Toyota by inches) he had identified eighteen incorrectly placed stars, seven missing planetoids, and a severely deformed Jupiter in the engraved star chart. Not to mention the fact that the galaxy was not, in fact, held up by giant steel cables, but that was less important.

That was humans for you, right there. Artistic and ambitious, but not too bright. With a few notable exceptions. He smiled fondly. Hard not to love 'em, really.

Still, the fact remained that the Doctor was at least 97% certain that this building should not exist in this particular dimension's London, in this particular time period. It might, of course, have existed in other time periods or dimensions, he acknowledged, but as he was something of an expert on this specific London, he thought he knew pretty well what he was talking about. Nearly causing a three-car pileup as he crossed the street-blithely ignoring the existence of a crossing-he strolled casually into the building, wondering vaguely what he'd do for identification without the psychic paper.

As it turned out, no one seemed too concerned about checking it at all. The doorman running the security scanner waved him through with the casual indifference of someone he met every day, and the receptionist at the desk called out a sunny, "Morning, Mr. Smith!" as he passed. Though, come to think of it…the Doctor pulled up short mid-stride, backtracked to the reception desk, and gave the man his best "harmless idiot" grin. "Good morning!" he chirped brightly, bringing a slightly puzzled smile in return to the man's face. "Could you tell me—I had a bit of an accident last night, hit my head on the pavement, terrible tragedy—what floor is Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart on?"

It probably said something that the pronouncement of an amnesiac head injury garnered nothing from the receptionist but a slight shake of the head and a resigned, "Eighth floor." Still, no time to wonder about that, there were real mysteries here to solve.

The Doctor found himself unnerved by the familiar calls of greeting and good morning to "Mr. John Smith," from the paper vendor he passed on his way through the lobby to the gaggle of paper-laden interns in the elevator to the vaguely familiar faces buzzing about a sunny newsroom like bees in a hive. It was eerie, frankly. They all seemed to know him. It was as if someone else's life had taken over his body.

On the eighth floor, he stepped out of the elevator and into a sprawling newsroom. Well, he'd expected that, being at a newspaper building and all…but…a _newsroom_! Bizarrely inexplicable alternate life though he might have found himself in, this was just _brilliant_. This was the beating heart of the city, the essence of the will of the people! Human men and women, ordinary humans raking up the mud, stirring up controversy, bringing to light the deep issues of society, politics…

"Geoff, where're my poodle shots? How can I hand in the dog show piece without my damn poodle shots?"

….er, more or less.

_"SMITH!"_

Now THAT stern disapproval he knew! Whipping around, the Doctor saw none other than the Brigadier himself at the open door of an office marked "EDITOR," scowling so that his mustache twitched just as it had oh, so many centuries ago, when the Doctor was young and the Earth was his home in exile. "In my office now, if you please."

Beaming to break his face in half, the Doctor practically bounded after his old friend, slamming the office door behind him against the collected stares of the newsroom. (Although he nearly tripped over his own feet on the way there—was that _Jack Harkness_ pushing a mail trolley?) "Alistair Gordon Lethbridge Stewart," he crowed. In his delight, the Doctor nearly danced from foot to foot as he faced the formidable Brig across a vast expanse of desk. The man looked much younger than the last time he'd seen him. But then, the Doctor himself was much younger (at least physically) than when last they'd met, not to mention a great deal more pinstriped.

As it had been such a very long time, it was very much to his surprise when the Brigadier, rather than greeting him in return or at the very least, offering a cup of tea, slapped a newspaper down on the desk and pointed to it briskly. "What is this, Smith?" he asked crisply, a tiny, controlled bite to his voice.

Thrown back into the confusion that was this entire bizarre day, but being an obliging sort, the Doctor picked up the newspaper and inspected it, peering first through the lenses of his spectacles, then lowering them to spy over the frame. Lethbridge-Stewart's name under the heading of "Editor" was not entirely surprising, just intensely strange, and he noticed that the Daily Galaxy was much better rendered on the letterhead than on the sign outside. He sniffed it, inhaling the scent of fresh ink and thin paper. He just stopped himself from licking it as well, mostly because the Doctor hated having a newsprint-black tongue. "A newspaper," he guessed confidently. "Today's, by the smell."

Lethbridge-Stewart was Not Amused. "It's today's newspaper…with not a single mention of yesterday's robbery to be found! Now, I thought that you and Tyler were on this."

"Robbery…right," the Doctor mused, tugging lightly at his ear in thought. For the moment, he set aside "you and Tyler," though wholly one of his hearts and a good portion of the other ached to grill his old friend about it. However, something extremely odd was happening here, and priority one had to be getting to the bottom of it. "Brigadier…have you noticed anything new here? About me, maybe? Something different from the last time you'd seen me?"

"Brigadier?" Lethbridge-Stewart's forehead creased in puzzlement at the title. "Why would you—no, John. I don't see anything new. If you've changed your haircut or somesuch, you may as well come out and say directly."

Considering the last time the last time the Brigadier had seen him, it had been well before this regeneration, and the last time the human had been this young, the Doctor had been giant grin and wild curls, it seemed that the Brigadier was under the same mysterious spell that held the rest of his world in thrall. "No?" he squeaked in dismay, just to be sure. "Not even a little?"

Lethbridge-Stewart frowned confusedly, but had no opportunity to reply as the door to his office flew open with a mighty "bang!" against the wall, and in flew a slender young woman in the most atrociously candy-pink suit the Doctor had ever seen. Rumpled and smeared with dirt, she looked like she'd spent the night sleeping in someone's vegetable patch, but it was neither the retina-blazing color nor the filth that captured the Time Lord's unqualified attention. No, that honor went to the bottle-blonde hair slumping precariously out of its chignon, wide chocolate eyes snapping fire at the hapless Brigadier, and generous mouth curved, not in the joyous, tongue-caught smile he remembered, but a fierce scowl of displeasure. The Doctor thought he might never have seen anything more beautiful in all his long lives.

"Rose," he breathed in awe.

Neither the woman (_not girl,_ he realized, devouring her with his eyes. _Not anymore._) herself nor Alistair seemed to notice his shock, however. They immediately launched into an argument about being in to work on time, deadlines and other semi-domestic concerns that the Doctor couldn't be bothered to pay the least attention to. _This isn't right,_ he tried so hard to remind himself. This was not his life. Something was very, very wrong here, but oh it was so hard to remember that when he saw his beautiful lost girl and his old friend and…_damn it, Doctor, focus!_

"Ah, 'scuse me Alistair, Rose?" the Doctor interrupted, physically poking his head into the space between them. "Yes, hello. I need to borrow Rose here for just a tic, be right back then." And without waiting for a response, he banded a tight arm around her waist, tugging her, speechless and struggling across the newsroom, up the stairs, into an open supply closet and shut the door.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Rose finally spluttered in astonishment, watching as he jury-rigged a temporary lock with several rulers balanced between the door handle and a stack of toner boxes. For a few moments, he was still and quiet, back to his captive, and the slump of his shoulders made her reach out to him, fingers brushing against his back in uncertain comfort. "What's wr—oof!"

Rose had to go up on tiptoe as she was seized in his arms once more, this time in a hug that felt so desperate, so frantic, that she feared someone must have died. His cool cheek buried itself in her shoulder, fingers tightening compulsively at her ribs. And then, so suddenly she nearly leapt away, he spun them around, seizing her shoulders in an iron grip as he bent slightly to peer into her eyes. "Rose," he asked gently, keeping his voice steady with an effort that impressed even him, "Do you know who I am?"

"Of course I do," she said hesitantly, staring up into his eyes as if searching for madness. "You're my best mate, why wouldn't I know who you are?"

"Good." He nodded slowly. Well, one step at a time, and this was the right direction at least. "And what's my name?"

"What are you-?"

He pressed his fingers to her lips, shaking his head sharply. "Just…humor me. Please."

"You're John." His hearts sank nearly to his feet. She looked so puzzled to be asked that it was clear that to her, at least, the answer was and always had been… "John Smith. We're partners, we've worked together for three years now. Now what's wrong?"

Her gentle concern made him feel sick with disappointment. Whoever this was, she wasn't his Rose. She looked like Rose, smelled like Rose and sounded so achingly like Rose…but she, like everyone else, thought he was John Smith, journalist. He just couldn't give it up, though. "What about, 'The Doctor?'" he asked, watching her eyes keenly for any spark of recognition. "And I don't mean the man you go to with the sniffles; what does that name mean to you? Anything? Anything at all?"

"The Doctor?" Her eyes widened with delight, and just for a moment hope flared in his chest, only to come crashing down as she continued, "Have you seen him? Is that why you were late today? Did you see the Doctor?"

….riiiiiiight. "Rose, something very strange is going on here, something that—"

_"Smith! Tyler! Get out here, we've got another robbery breaking!"_

Rose glanced up at him, still worried for his mental health. "You okay, John?" Mind spinning with theories of alternate universes, transmats and too much Arcturian super-brandy, he could only nod silently. "Well, come on then!" she encouraged, giving his chest a playful little smack. He frowned. Ow. There was something metal under his shirt, and she'd just accidentally shoved it almost painfully into his flesh.

The Doctor's completely useless "lock" tumbled down with Rose's exit as he fumbled at his throat, finding a cord there and drawing it out to inspect whatever had just left a bruised imprint below his collarbone. Dangling from the loop of braided string was a key, a very familiar key, in fact, he realized as he brought it up to eye-level. He hadn't noticed it this morning while dressing, but then, if he had _noticed_ the highly modified perception filter around his neck, it would have been pretty useless as a perception filter.

The amount of relief that flooded him as he inspected tangible evidence of his TARDIS's existence nearly staggered him. So long as the old girl was around somewhere, there was hope. And maybe, just maybe…oh, there was that hope! If he was wearing a perception filter, and one modified beyond his experience to boot, it might explain why everyone seemed to think he was John Smith! This was a theory that required testing, he thought with a wide grin.

Although…hello! Turning the key over and over in his fingers, he came across a tiny Seal of Rassilon engraved in the metal at the tip. Intrigued (he hadn't used the Seal since the Time War, and couldn't imagine why it would be on his key) he slid the pad of his thumb over the small symbol…

…and suddenly found himself nearly suffocated, every inch of his body uncomfortably compressed, as though he were being smothered, or squeezed by a giant python. Suddenly overwarm, he pulled at the buttons of his shirt, parting the edges, brushing the cotton away from the smooth spandex…wait.

Oh. Ooooooooooh. That wasn't good.

Slowly, with the sense of dawning horror that only a man finding himself unexpectedly in skintight briefs can know, the Doctor peeled open his shirt, pulled away his tie (he liked that tie; the curly patterns reminded him of being in the Vortex) and stared down at his torso, covered as it was in a slick coating of brilliant, TARDIS-blue spandex. Just to test its relative reality, he plucked a bit off his stomach, watched it snap back against his skin. And swirling on his chest, in a stiff pattern of red and orange embroidery, was the Seal of Rassilon.

Newspaper…attractive partner… blue. Spandex. Suit. The Doctor's genius mind was spinning with these clues, and not liking the conclusion it came to. Twentieth Century Earth pop culture was something he knew quite a bit about, and this life sounded eerily familiar.

_A strange visitor from another planet…last survivor of a doomed world…powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men…_

"Oh, BUGGER."


	3. Chapter Two: The Thief

Chapter Two: The Thief 

The Doctor was totally, completely, and ecstatically in his element.

An element that, by the look of fond exasperation Rose was giving him, "John Smith" shared. When Lethbridge-Stewart had ordered them out to investigate the latest robbery (object of immense value stolen, no sign of forced entry or any entry at all, the only areas without cameras being a ventilation shaft too small for a terrier to fit through and so on and so forth), the Doctor had opened his mouth to protest—long, loudly, and no matter what anyone might say, not even close to whiny.

However, when he had gone on to explain that it was U.N.I.T. Labs that had been robbed, the foremost scientific laboratory in this strange world, well…

…that was something else entirely.

"Ohhhh, look at this!" he all but cooed, half-kneeling to better inspect the wild tangle of copper wire, plastic tubing, and electrically pink liquid trickling along twisting paths in a child's roller coaster of science. "That's—it's—well, to be honest, I have no idea at all what it is, but it looks brilliant!" His fingers all but itched to get into it, take it apart to see what it did, make it better. And that was only the beginning. All around him were test tubes and tools and gadgets being taken apart and gadgets being put together, oh, and a line of bright yellow police tape all around the lab. He _loved_ police tape. Never been able to resist the stuff. They always had the good stuff, the really important stuff, behind the tape.

A warm puff of air brushed his shoulder as Rose leaned down over his back, chuckling softly. "Look at you, like a kid in the toy shop!" she laughed, and delight skittered through him at the sound. He'd thought he would never hear her laughter again, his beloved girl. "What d'ya think it's for?" she asked curiously, the curly wire edge of her notepad digging into the tender flesh at the curve of his shoulder as she looked closer.

The Doctor grinned, twisting so that his face was within a half-inch of Rose's. He was just about to spin some long and, to her ears, completely incomprehensible but very impressive explanation for "wire-tuby-drippy-liquid thing", when a wry feminine voice from the doorway called out, "Lemonade."

With the way the day was going, he really shouldn't have been surprised to see Sarah Jane Smith striding through the door, looking thoroughly official with a trench coat and badge and, he noted with a distasteful wrinkle of freckled nose, gun strapped to her hip. Grim-faced and solemn in a way that just seemed wrong for his old friend, she ducked under the tape across the door, kicking the broken and scattered remnants of machinery broken in the robbery out of the way as she passed. "At least that's what Dr. Sullivan tells me. These scientists, they can never do anything the simple way."

The note of faint scorn in Sarah Jane's voice was enough to remind the Doctor that he really needed to find a way back to his own reality, his own Sarah Jane and his precious ship and… His gaze followed Rose hungrily as she stood, went to Sarah Jane with pen in hand and an excruciatingly familiar expression of determined excitement. Lewis and the Sarge, he recalled, hearts aching with each double beat at the memory. Well, he was living it now, wasn't he? Deducting.

"Yes, but," he put in abruptly, shoving his heartsbreak and his grief back into the corner of his soul as he'd become oh, so terribly good at doing and managing to startle Rose and Sarah Jane (_D.I. Smith_, he corrected himself, playing back their conversation from the recorder of his subconscious) so they jumped as he did so, "_what _would a common robber want with a machine that is, basically, atomic-level glue? I mean, it's hardly something to put a model airplane together with." Over Rose and Sarah Jane's startled glances, he pondered, "Well, I suppose you could, after all. Model airplanes, made of atoms and molecules that could be bonded and what have you, but really, it seems overkill for something you could do with an average tube of glue-"

"Wait, wait." The Doctor flinched back a little as D.I. Smith's finger came directly at his face. Honestly, she could put an eye out like that! "You understood that technobabble?"

"Ummm…" Right. Mild-mannered reporter, not supposed to be able to distill the most advanced human science to a child's toy—even if, for him, that was exactly what it was. "Yes?"

Rose's lips parted in an O, her jaw had gone slightly slack with surprise. "Mostly?" he squeaked, all but squirming under Sarah Jane's hard stare.

"And how would you know so much about the stolen property, Smith? I know you tinker a bit, but U.N.I.T. Labs experiments are way beyond you," she interrogated, eyes narrowing dangerously. Had she been that intimidating back in the seventies? He didn't remember her being.

"Errr…." Oh, he really hoped that he was reading this reality correctly, or else this could be very awkward. "I've been…talking to the Doctor?" he guessed.

"The Doctor?" Rose, frozen by the shock of finding out her partner had somehow managed to acquire the brain of a genius, suddenly became animated once again. Her eyes lit with excitement. "When did you have a chance to talk to him? We came straight here when we heard about the robbery."

"I—well, that is—y'see…" he temporized, restraining himself forcefully from tugging his ear or scratching fingers through his hair. Yes, that part might be a bit hard to explain. Not that he was having a real great time with the whole "secret identity" thing to begin with. Why did he even have a secret identity to begin with in this reality? Did he have some kind of superpowers? Now that…that would be amazing. Fantastic, even. "The thing is, Rose—"

Saved by the scream.

By the time the three of them had run full-tilt into the next room, there were three officers shoving furniture aside to search underneath, a Detective Inspector shining his torch into the cabinet under the industrial sink, and one very shaky astrophysicist up on the counter, just barely avoiding stepping on an unlit Bunsen burner as she shivered for her life. "What is it, what happened?" Rose burst out, pen already in hand for any breaking news. D.I. Smith aka Sarah Jane crossed immediately to the astrophysicist on the counter, trying to coax her down.

"It ran over my shoe!" the hysterical woman yelped, resisting all efforts to take her hand and guide her to the floor. "It was at least a foot tall, and it—it—"

"Now calm down and come here," D.I. Smith ordered gently, trying to catch a flailing arm. "We'll find whatever it was, only do come down-

Just at that moment, there was a flash of movement in the periphery of the Doctor's vision, a tiny blue blur streaking for the empty sheet-metal cupboard in the corner, and the nerve-stricken astrophysicist wailed inconsolably, clambering away from the edge of her counter.

Sitting on a stand at the door was a massive jar of, of all things, jelly babies. Hating to waste such sugary goodness, but desirous of their container, the Doctor slid it quietly off the table, dumping the contents onto the counter just out of reach of the hysterical scientist. The police, including Sarah Jane, watched carefully as he motioned to Rose, making a small shaking motion with his free hand.

Silently nodding her understanding, Rose gently slid her clicking heels off, then padded, barefoot and quiet, to the heavy cupboard. She wedged herself into the space between its back and the wall, squeezing in until only her head was still visible around the side. Silently mouthing off the numbers, the Doctor ticked them down for her benefit on his fingers, getting as close to the cabinet as he dared with the jar upended in his hands.

_One. Two. THREE!_

The cupboard tipped, a blue figure rolled out and the Doctor slammed the glass jar down over it, trapping the little thing between the glass and the floor. It squeaked indignantly, more a meep really, as police, amnesiac time traveler-slash-reporter and Detective-Inspector, and one Time Lord having a very strange day gathered around its transparent prison.

"It's…" Sarah Jane breathed, eyes wide as she lost all sense of speech at the sight before her. Squeezed behind her, one of the officers made a squeak of shock not unlike the furious meeping of the little prisoner.

"It's the Doctor," Rose whispered, tapping a fingernail lightly against the thick glass top of the jar.

And indeed it was. The Doctor slipped on his spectacles to better inspect, sliding flat onto his stomach on the floor and putting himself on eye-level with the captive. It was a perfect miniature him: wild hair, arms crossed over the chest, and all. A chest covered by blue spandex and the Seal of Rassilon. With a cape! Did he have a cape? He hadn't felt a cape, back at the Daily Galaxy, but maybe it was in a pocket? Thankfully the whole costume had gone away with a second touch to the Mark, too quickly for him to investigate much.

The miniature Doctor was ranting relentlessly in its squeaky language, gesticulating wildly as it kicked at its glass prison, then sat down to massage its bruised little foot. It was a perfect, twelve—no, more like ten—inch replica of himself. Right down to the sonic screwdriver, he noted as a silver instrument smaller than his little finger made an appearance.

"D.I. Smith?" the Doctor (the full-sized one, that was, as he mentally dubbed the other Mini Doctor) drawled, rolling onto his side to peer at the little clone. "No forced entry, only unsupervised space being a four-inch ventilation pipe, nothing caught on camera?" He grinned wildly up at them. "I think we just might have found your robber."


	4. Chapter Three: The Best of Friends

Chapter Three: The Best of Friends 

Back at the Daily Galaxy, the Doctor was twisting restlessly back and forth in his wheeled office chair, feet on the desk, as Rose finished typing up the article about the U.N.I.T. Labs robbery and discovery of the Mini Doctor. Every now and then she lifted her head to shoot him a peeved glare, but honestly, what help would he be? He was a Time Lord, not a reporter. Not to mention, he'd noticed a slight tendency towards the verbose this regeneration. Talkative. Very fond of words. A walking thesaurus. Gobby git, Jackie had groaned over that long-ago first Christmas dinner. Perhaps not the best personality trait for writing for a—he mentally put on a booming, impressive voice—GREAT METROPOLITAN NEWSPAPER.

"There," she sighed, clicking in "their" submission. Leaning back in her own chair, Rose closed her tired eyes and reached up to tug her golden hair out of its pins, oblivious to the riveted gaze of her partner as she did so. He watched her hair tumble around her face, soft tendrils that begged for his fingers in their golden glory. "Why the Doctor, though?" The question was partially muffled by hands scrubbing over her face, rubbing away the sleep.

One a.m. had waved on its fleeting way past, and they were the only ones left now in the Daily Galaxy. They had been hours at the police station, watching the officers try to interrogate a suspect who not only wouldn't talk, but _couldn't_ in any language they could translate. Mini Doctor's vocal cords were simply too little to allow language meant for larger folk, and it would take weeks to fully translate his own language of meeps and squeaks.

They had, however, identified why he had still been there when any co-conspirators he might have had got away. His little wrist was out at an odd angle, obviously broken and preventing him from climbing back into the ventilation shaft. Rose had taken it on herself to splint it temporarily with a broken pencil and pieces of tissue, making noises suspiciously like cooing at him. Interestingly, she had been the only one allowed to put her hands in the jar without having her fingers bitten. The Doctor currently had several tiny, circular welts on his fingertips; for such a small mouth it sure had sharp teeth. "Why make a clone of him?"

The Doctor shrugged, scooting his chair over to pull Rose's up against his, locking their armrests together. "Weeeeeeeell," he drawled, lightly pulling through strands of her hair with gentle fingers. Was this Rose a natural blonde? Her brows were dark, but there were no roots at all to her hair. She had always had roots in his world. That had been one of her favorite excuses for visiting her mum.

"The Doctor," he began, and she didn't notice his lip curl at speaking of himself in the third person, "is a genius, isn't he? Not to mention he probably has all sorts of skills that humans wouldn't. You'd need that, to be able to get in and out of U.N.I.T. without being caught by the cameras, or the night security, not to mention identifying the target and getting it out securely, that takes some specialized scientific knowledge. Or it could be as simple as whoever created him just happened to have a piece of the Doctor's DNA lying around and thought it would be a good joke. Dunno."

Slightly unnerved by "John's" continued perusal of her hair, but making no motion to pull away, Rose closed her eyes to the soothing massage. "Someone should warn him," she opined, sighing softly as his fingers buried deeply against her scalp. "He'll be able to help."

For a moment, the Doctor was silent, indulging in the painful pleasure of touching his Rose once more. _Gingerbread houses_, he'd once warned her of parallel universes. Beautiful dreams of lost loved ones and quiet lives, but never belonging, always remembering what had never been… It was a temptation, such a temptation. He'd given so much to the universe, wasn't he owed this? Owed a chance with the woman he loved after nine hundred years of lonely service to Time?

Even as he thought it, he knew he had to find his way home. Martha was somewhere on the TARDIS, possibly unaware that she was alone, and that universe still needed its protector. Still, his hearts were heavy as he asked, "Rose…what do you know about the Doctor?"

Her body stiffened, eyes snapping open, startled as they met his, but he nudged her face back down with his hands in her hair, unwilling to meet her eyes for this conversation. "I know, I know," he said, cutting her off before she could object. "Just…remind me. Please? Humor me?" She couldn't see the little quirk of a smile he flashed her, but then, she'd never needed to open her eyes to know his moods. Remarkably perceptive when it came to him, she was.

Letting out a slow sigh, Rose relaxed back into his hands, smiling faintly as his fingertips scraped back from her hairline. "He showed up in the early sixties," she began, still more than a bit puzzled by his questioning but forever willing to trust him. "He comes and goes—disappeared for almost twenty years in the late eighties and nineties, but he always shows up when the world needs saving."

"Saving from?" he prompted, mouth beginning to twitch upwards amusedly in spite of himself. Well, this sounded more than a bit familiar.

"Aliens," she shrugged. "Homegrown megalomaniacs. Pretty much whatever comes along, never sticks around after it's all over, never asks for thanks…the suit's a little silly, but he said once it keeps people from recognizing him."

_The perception field_, he realized. It explained a lot; how he was maintaining a secret identity, for one. No one saw the Doctor as changing bodies, because no one remembered he'd ever looked different, thanks to the perception field. He had the sudden image of some of his earlier selves in the tight spandex suits, and winced. That was…definitely for the best. "And you…you're a friend of his, yeah?"

Under his hands, Rose's skin heated, and he was astonished to notice a warm pink stealing up over her cheeks. "S'pose so, yeah. I guess I am, sort of…mean, I help him out sometimes. Seems to work well, a good partnership."

He'd heard that soft tone from her before. He'd heard it in that store room, challenging him to show her his moves, swaying close to his old self and smiling. "Yeah?" he managed to get out, finding himself, for once, with nothing else to say. Oh for heaven's sake, he couldn't be jealous of himself, could he? He was the Doctor. The real thing, even. John Smith was the fiction!

….really, who was he kidding? Over his life, he'd made being jealous of himself, fighting with himself, and generally being a psychiatrist's identity crisis nightmare practically a career.

"Yeah." She giggled a little under her breath, sending his teeth gritting. His fingers closed a bit too tightly in her hair, causing her to wince slightly before easing back into his touch.

"What about us?" he asked hesitantly, telling himself that he wasn't being a jealous idiot. He needed all the information he could get. Anything might help him back to his own reality. It was completely true, so why did his logic feel so unstable?

"Us?" she echoed, brows knitting together as she finally pulled away completely, twisting over the back of her chair to face him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…us. Friends, right, you said? So…"

"John…" Rose trailed off uneasily, reaching out with a tentative hand as if to check for fever.

"Just, please," he said wearily. "Keep humoring me."

She bit down hard on her lower lip, looking dreadfully worried about his state of mind, but complied without argument. Nice, that. It was all too rare to have Rose, any version of Rose, do as he said. "You came to London about three years ago," she began slowly. "You grew up in the town of Gallifrey, somewhere up north, and did you ever have an accent when I first met you!" She laughed merrily, spinning his head almost as much as the name of his homeworld, tripping so easily from her tongue. "Thought you were a right twit when you first started here. Nearly pitched a fit when the Chief said you were gonna be my partner! But you learned well enough, and now I can _almost_ just about stand you." She grinned up at him, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth as he remembered so well. "Like I said, we're best mates. Do everything together, you and me."

"Shiver and Shake, the old team?" He couldn't help it; this might not be his Rose, but it was a Rose, and where there was a Rose, the Doctor would simply adore her. Mirroring her grin with his own, he reached down to take her hand, swinging it back and forth between their chairs, and it felt so right. "All right, then?" she asked gently, clearly still concerned for his state of mind.

"Oh, I'm fine," he assured her. "Peachy keen, even."

Rose almost giggled with relief, leaning in until they nearly bumped noses like children. She still wasn't sure he was quite right; something seemed terribly off about her usually good-natured but rather airheaded partner. If she could only just put her finger on it… But he was watching her with such dark, fathomless eyes, focused on her as if she were the only thing in his universe, and she couldn't quite remember feeling that heated roiling in the pit of her stomach for her partner; the Doctor, yes, if in her very secret thoughts, but not John, handsome and sweet and best mate though he might be…

…did she?

"The question is," he suddenly blurted out, making Rose blink at the change of topic, not to mention the abrupt distance he put between them. Something was definitely, definitely off with John, and she intended to find out what. Award-winning investigative reporter. Shouldn't be too hard. "The real question is: what do these robberies have in common? Besides being seemingly impossible and likely having the same pint-sized culprit, who negates the impossibility of the whole enterprise; do you think we should take that off the list, then? Maybe it should be, 'quite improbable.' Yes, quite improbable and likely perpetrated by our diminutive little friend and possibly some more diminutive friends of his. So, what do they have in common….Rose, what was taken from each robbery?"

Maybe she should just get used to being off-kilter, since it seemed that her partner had made it his new hobby to confuse her as much as humanly possible. "Ahhhh….a collection of diamonds from the vault of First Bank, the atom…glue…machine thingy from U.N.I.T. Labs, some biological specimen from another lab-they don't say what, top secret and all, a full weapons shipment from the military, a new tech probe from a microengineering firm, and a batch of some kind of new, super-resilient polyethylene from the industrial lab at a plastics factory outside the city."

With each component, the Doctor's hearts sank further and further. He had the very bad feeling he knew exactly what someone could do with those components, if they were a boundless genius such as himself and had very few scruples, as well as certain alien contacts. And what could be done wasn't good, not at all.

Leaping from his chair, the Doctor all but ran to grab his overcoat, throwing it on so hastily that he almost missed the left armhole twice. He had to go, had to find out who had those components and what exact type of biological specimen they had obtained. He thought he knew, but for once he hoped fervently to be wrong.

Astonished by the sudden transition from inertia to top speed, Rose half-rose from her chair as if to stop him. "Wait, where are you going?"

"I'm going to, ah, um…talk to the Doctor!" The answer came, distracted and rather bounced, as he leapt up the stairs to the upper level of the newsroom three at a time. "Yes, I figure he'll know what's going on." Not a lie. He did, in fact, have a pretty damn good idea what was going on. And chattering to himself was yet another bad habit he'd picked up with this latest regeneration. The urge to babble was not to be suppressed, even when no one was around to hear him.

"You know where to find him? I'm coming with you!"

"No!" Rose froze in the act of pulling on her own coat, watching as he dove into the elevator, punching his floor without even looking. As much as the Doctor might want her with him, and he did, there would be too much explaining to do, too many things that could go wrong, and besides, he had a very bad feeling about his changes of ending up in blue spandex. "No, you stay here…he's in kind of a shy mood, you know how it is, having a bad hair day and you just hate to be seen. I'll take care of it, you just stay here and DON'T WANDER OFF!" And then, before Rose could object, the elevator doors slid closed, leaving her in a darkened newsroom with no idea what was happening to her story, a sense of things going on over her head, and a partner who'd first gone mad, and then taken off like the hounds of Hell were on his heels. _Again_.

Rose sat back down heavily in her chair. "I _hate_ when he does that."


	5. Chapter Four: Jailbreak

Chapter Four: Jailbreak 

_Oh, times like this, I'm almost grateful there's no one left from home to see this. Humans, at least, have seen stranger. Hell, they make stranger than this a hobby._

To be honest, the Doctor had finally ceased to be surprised by any of this new reality when he went looking for a place to change and had found an old, unused Police Public Call Box sitting placid as could be on a street corner a few blocks from the police station, all solid and blue and achingly familiar. The police station where they'd recently, and very rudely (he was supposed to be the rude one, rude and not ginger, that was him, and it just didn't work if someone was ruder to him first!) and repeatedly thrown him out without letting him see Mini Doctor.

_Ugh, I feel like a sausage in this!_

Bumping his elbows painfully within the confines of the non-transcendental police box (he hadn't expected it to be otherwise, not really, and the pricking in his eyes had had nothing to do with his disappointment at its not being bigger inside) the Doctor stripped off his jacket, vest, first shirt, second shirt (I really do wear too many layers…) and tie, reluctantly revealing his spandexed torso in all its cornflower blue, rail-thin glory. The only bright spot was the discovery of a cape that unfurled neatly from his shoulders, leading to the delighted conclusion that unlike his pockets and this box, his shirt was, in fact, bigger on the inside. Sighing inwardly at the idea of having to see his lanky legs in blue tights, the Doctor shucked his slacks…

…and gazed down in complete and utter horror.

No.

_No._

What kind of crazy fool wore bright red pants on the outside?

Blushing as scarlet as the spandex covering his unmentionables, the Doctor wadded up his suit, shoving it into the narrow lip at the roof of the police box. Then, feeling like the most complete fool who ever traveled the cosmos, the Doctor slipped out of the box and into the night. _Please, please let this perception filter be working,_ he sent up the prayer to any nameless gods or goddesses who might be listening and inclined to take pity on a mortified Time Lord. If there was ever a time he didn't want to be seen, it was now.

Despite the challenge of hiding spandex bright enough to light half the galaxy, however, the perception filter did its job in keeping him unnoticed as he slipped into the police station, feeling like only a complete idiot creeping past the crowded water cooler in his cape and red Chucks.

Mini Doctor wasn't particularly difficult to find; he was being held, still in his glass jar with holes poked in the lid, in the property room with the rest of the evidence. Well, they could hardly put him into a jail cell, the Doctor reasoned, he could slip right through the bars. He was sitting dejectedly on the floor of his glass prison, sucking on one of the handful of jelly babies a pitying Rose had tipped in after bandaging his arm. Apparently, at least one police officer had also taken compassion, as there was a tiny paper Dixie cup of water (as big as the little thing's whole forearm) half a banana, and a soft hand towel in there with him.

Popping his specs onto his nose, the Doctor crept close, once more putting himself on eye level with his miniature counterpart. "Hello," he said softly.

"Hello," Mini Doctor replied perfectly coherently, much to Full-Sized Doctor's astonishment. "You're back, are you? Brilliant. You know I've recited the entire contents of _The Full and Complete History of the Pickle Crusade of Febrottle Beta_ since they left me alone down here? Backwards." All this was said in perfectly English and an eerie mimic of his own current accent and inflections, if in a ridiculously high pitch from tiny lungs and eensy vocal cords. _The gift of the TARDIS_, the Doctor realized. Somehow, even though he had yet to find her, she was translating for him now that he wore this suit. And if looking like an escapee from an asylum was what it took to assure himself that his magnificent ship was still out there, well, it was worth it.

"I could get you out of here," the Doctor offered softly, watching as the little one stopped sucking on the jelly baby to listen. "I know someone is trying to take over this world. The same someone who created you, I'm thinking. Tell me who, help me, and I can get you your freedom." Which would be a bit trickier a proposition than he made out, but really, what were the police planning on doing with him anyway? Putting him in a cat carrier and throwing away the key? It wasn't as if they would be able to do much if the Doctor just happened to set the little one loose somewhere with promises to make no more harmful mischief.

Mini Doctor considered it, scratching at his wild hair with his wee hand. "What about—" He cut himself off, glaring fiercely up at his counterpart through the glass. "I don't go anywhere without my friend. Promise me she'll go free, too, and I'll help you."

"She?" Of course. A slow smile grew on the large Doctor's face. He'd figured there had to have been more than one miniature clone; who would have carried out the stolen tech when his own copy was injured and trapped inside the lab? And of course, of _course_ it would be a copy of the only person Mini Doctor had been willing to let into his jar. Rose. "Goes without saying!" the Doctor promised merrily, reaching into the jar and plucking Mini Doctor out by his handkerchief-sized cape to set him up on his shoulder. "'Cmon then," he grinned, finding a miniature copy of the expression only inches from his face. "_Allons-y!_ Off to rescue the very tiny damsel and save the world! This one, at any rate. Don't belong here, actually. Funny story…"


	6. Chapter Five: An Old Foe

Chapter Five: An Old Foe 

He might have known.

When Mini Doctor had led him to the lair of the scientist who'd created him from stolen samples of the Doctor's biological material (the miniature copy had the power to dematerialize and reappear, just like the TARDIS, grating sound and everything, and how brilliant was _that_?) the Doctor had known who he would find. How could he not? After all, who else would name their offices "Prydon Industries?" Still, a promise was a promise, and so even though he was anxious to go and seek out his old foe in the towering skyscraper of glass and steel (reminding him unwaveringly and terribly of Canary Wharf), it was first to the scientific laboratories that he allowed himself to be led, following Mini Doctor's instructions from his shoulder to the cages in which the little clones were kept.

There were, in fact, eight clones, six of whom he recognized vaguely from the pages of the Daily Galaxy as being important figures in this world. One of was the miniature of himself, riding his shoulder like an amusement ride, and one was a blonde thing who squealed her high-pitched cry when he set Mini Doctor down among the others and ran straight to his only good arm, throwing her little arms around his neck in a very familiar embrace.

Mini Doctor and, of course, Mini Rose protested squeakily against his going up to face their creator alone, insisting on coming along. The Enemy had money, and power, and plenty of thugs to do his bidding; at least let them come along to help! But the Doctor smiled, lightly patted Mini Rose's soft little golden head with his palm because he couldn't help himself, and promised to come back for them as soon as he was through.

The thugs they'd feared had proved no problem; they hadn't even noticed the Doctor as he crept past in his perception filter. He had an inkling that he could have just materialized as Mini Doctor had shown him-he was becoming more and more convinced that yes, he had superpowers and the clone's were just a duplicate of his- and while that would have been brilliant to try, sound was more noticeable than vision with this sort of thing. Why cellular dissipation and reformation should sound like the Time Rotor grating away was a question for the books, but there it was and he couldn't seem to get around it.

So he just took the lift instead.

Up and up, flying like a bird, like a plane, up to floor 500 and the adversary who could very well be responsible for the Doctor's being called there from his own reality in the first place. The dread foe who, even as the spandex-suited Doctor threw open the door to his evil laboratory, was hooking up the final stolen components to the very cloning machine that had created the little ones.

"Master," the Doctor greeted him quietly, suddenly feeling less superheroic than ever, despite the waving cape.

Pausing in his work of welding the atomic stabilizer to a wide bank of computers, the long-dead Time Lord whirled about to face his one-time friend and ancient nemesis. "That's Mister Master to you, Doctor," he hissed.

"You wo—wait a minute," the Doctor interrupted himself, brow knitting in confusion. "Sorry, that was my bad ear. _Mister_ Master?"

The Master looked just as he had when the Doctor had last seen him all those years ago, back before he'd been killed on Skaro. …well, second to last time he'd seen him. He didn't really count their last meeting, back in his eighth life with Grace and the atomic clock and that whole mess. Hadn't been the Master's own body, to begin with.

"Yes!" the Master crowed, dramatically brandishing the tool he'd been using to weld—was that? It looked like a heavily modified sonic screwdriver-like a sword. "Lex Master, your doom, Doctor!"

The Doctor hadn't thought it was possible for his hearts to sink any lower, but they somehow managed it. Human. This Master, copy of his old nemesis though he may be, was in fact human. Not a Time Lord. Even knowing that none of this was real, that he didn't belong in this world, didn't dissipate his crushing disappointment at realizing that in any universe, he remained the last of his kind.

Still, there was disaster to avert, an alternate reality to save, and the Doctor was determined to do so. In fact, it made it easier that this Master was human…he might have hesitated against the only other Time Lord in the multiverse, but this was not his old friend. This was just another human megalomaniac. "I know what you're doing, _Mister_ Master, and it's going to stop now," he said sternly, making a concerted effort to merely see some faceless, nameless human with the tools to rule the earth rather than the face of his old friend.

"You think so, Doctor?" the Master smirked, leaning back on his computer console as casually as if they were having a lovely chat in the garden. "Do you think that for one moment you could even come close to understanding what I've done?"

"Oooooh, I have a pretty good idea," the Doctor drawled, pacing slowly around the room, fluttering cape lending a touch of panache. He sucked in a deep breath. "Those little clones downstairs are only the first experimental stage. You're using the cloning system to replicate my DNA from the biological specimen you stole, then creating plastic Auton-like creatures by a fusion of the industrial polyethylene and organic components and I actually don't even know if you have Autons in this world but you're going to use the atomic stabilizer to combine together the polymer and Time Lord DNA at the elemental level thus creating an army of unstoppable, replaceable soldiers armed with the weapons you hijacked from the military. Going by the other clones downstairs you're also planning to replace the world's leaders with these same plastic creatures, who will of course be entirely subservient to you thus leaving you lord and master of the earth."

The Doctor sucked in a deep breath, just managing to get the end of that tirade out before he choked. Nearly suffocated himself and hadn't hit half the points of what he'd worked out, but he'd got the gist of it.

To "Lex Master's" (_good grief_, the Doctor thought) credit, he got over his surprise at the Doctor's having unraveled his dastardly plot rather quickly, and the Doctor certainly hadn't seen the gun coming. It had just never really been the Master's style, though, granted, it was more his than the Doctor's. The problem was-temporary superhero or no-the Doctor was fairly sure he remained vulnerable to bullets. And while he would regenerate easily if shot (he hoped, although he wasn't taking anything for granted here anymore) it would certainly take enough time to recover that the Master would be able to get his plastic/clone hybrids manufacturing and on their way to taking over the world. Not to mention he'd died of gunshot wounds once already, and it had been a deeply unpleasant experience.

Soldering the last wires of the atomic stabilizer to the computers with a wave of his tool, the Master advanced on the Doctor, pistol in hand. "I think I should keep you alive, Doctor," the Master all but cooed, hitting switch after switch with his free hand as he advanced. All around them, cloning tubes lit with a sickly amber light, plastic modified to have life of its own began pouring into man-shaped molds. The gurgling of the pipes had an ominous, mind-numbing rhythm that seemed to beat urgency into his mind. _One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four_… "At least long enough to see my new children decanted." He kept moving forward, and, intent on the Doctor, didn't see the shadow behind him, creeping ever closer. The Doctor, however, did, and his eyes widened in alarm as it tiptoed silently up on the evil genius. The Master smiled cruelly, flipped the safety on his gun. "Or perhaps not."

There was a great bang, and the Doctor was fairly sure the Master saw a flash of light, but the gun hadn't gone off.

A high-heeled foot (even at that moment, the Doctor grinned in recognition of those bubblegum kitten heels) snapped out, kicking the gun from the Master's hands as he crumpled to his knees, clutching his head where Rose's bit of steel pipe had impacted with his skull. Seeing his opportunity, the Doctor dove in, snatched the tool the Master had been soldering with from his hands, and came up, weird sonic screwdriver lookalike held triumphantly aloft.

"Wandering off, were you?" The Doctor backed slowly towards the door, Rose safely in tow.

"Yeah, well," the blonde shrugged, throwing a beaming grin up at him over her shoulder. Oh, he just…he'd _missed_ her. "You know me. I had a tip about Master."

But already, even as Lex Master clutched his shiny new concussion, living plastic dummies with the DNA of a Time Lord were beginning to move, to stir in their molding cradles. Newborns, they hadn't yet discovered the destruction they were capable of, but it was down to the Doctor to ensure they never would. Hoping against hope that the settings were the same as his own screwdriver (the point was green, who made a sonic screwdriver that glowed green?) the Doctor pointed it at the computers and depressed the switch.

Oooooh, yeah, those were the same settings, all right.

Rose and the Doctor each snatched one of Lex Master's arms as they dove from the laboratory, ducking to avoid the sparks that sprayed from the sonic-melted wiring of the computers. In their tubes, the plastic clones began to writhe and contort and melt, puddling back into their liquid state and then smoking to a black crisp. The atomic stabilizer, swiftly and carelessly welded into the system as it was, was the first component to catch fire. By the time Rose and the Doctor made it to the stairs, the tied and gagged Master between them, the flames were already beginning to spread.

And as they pelted out onto the street, scooping up their tiny clones on the way, the top floors exploded in a shower of flame.


	7. Epilogue: In Another Life

Gently setting the tiny clones of himself and Rose into the damp grass of Hyde Park, the Doctor asked, "Now, you two sure you'll be all right? I don't want you turning up as some wild dog's chew toys, you understand."

After an extremely squeaky and indignantly scathing lecture on how he knew how to care for Mini Rose, the Mini Doctor ran off into the bushes, eternally hand-in-hand with his blonde companion. Beside him, the Doctor's own full-sized Rose was smiling as she watched them go.

"Wouldn't be surprised if some kid starts a legend about brownies or something in here," she chuckled, sliding her fingers easily through his as they straightened. The Doctor could get used to this again, all too easily. It would be so simple to just forget he wasn't supposed to be here and…

His hand was cold as he let hers slide away. He wasn't meant to have kept her. He didn't deserve that sort of happiness. The universe had made that point very clear long ago, and trying to keep her would be so painfully futile.

"Doctor?" But oh, the puzzled hurt on her face made him want to drag her back into his arms and kiss it away until she was all he could remember of the world, until she was all the world there was. Someplace duty and responsibility melted away, and he was free to be with his love.

"There's something I need to ask you." She was trying to meet his gaze, even as he fought to avoid it.

"Yes, Rose?" His voice was patient, but his body screamed the need to run, flee from her concern and her love before he accepted it and became trapped here by his own hearts.

"Is it really you in there, John?"

Well. That got his attention.

"Wha-?"

"I was following you. From the police station." She smiled tentatively, worrying the corner of her mouth in anxiety. "Unless that police box holds a lot more people than it looks like….John, is it really you?" Her fingers were soft and hot as they cupped his jaw, stroking its shadowed line as if she could read the answer in his bones. His eyes slipped closed. He was lost.

"No, Rose, I'm the Doctor," he explained, not bothering to move away from her gentle touch or even to look at her, too afraid of his own hearts to trust that they could see her without screaming to keep her. "I've always been the Doctor, John Smith is the disg—"

The explanation was swallowed by her kiss.

Her lips scalded his with human heat, but he drank in the fire, coaxing her mouth open with the stroke of his tongue to give him more. His hands, greedy, tactile things that they were, were smoothing over her back, her hips, dragging her into his body as if he could keep her there for all time. Rose was on tiptoe, teetering dangerously on broken heels with the effort to reach his mouth, but he was her anchor, her stability, her hands in his hair, clutching his shoulders, her lips on his, holding her up and unbalancing her all at once. He could never give her up, he had been a fool to think he ever could. His arm tightened fiercely around her waist at the mere thought, kiss turning fierce as his teeth nipped and caught at the ripe fullness of her lower lip, no, he would find some way to take her with him, make her remember, make her his once more….

"Doctor."

Cracked leather under his back, feet falling asleep and no exquisitely soft, warm human female in his arms; the loss was almost more than he could stand.

"Doctor?" The voice came again, this time with a delicate hand shaking his shoulder, and when he opened his arms he was looking up into Martha's worried eyes.

"You all right?" his newest companion asked concernedly, scooting around the jump seat to stand by his outstretched legs. "You were moaning in your sleep." His ankles were propped up on the edge of the console—ow, that would explain why his legs were tingling like he'd just had a full course of Arcadian acupuncture. A dream. He'd dreamed it all. Resting near his feet, an empty jar of jam perched precariously along the edge of the controls. Right. No more boysenberry. Not ever. He was sure that was where the spandex had come from, although what dark corner of his mind had dredged the Master back to life, he'd never know. Marmalade didn't do this to him.

"Doctor?"Martha repeated for the third time before it finally sunk in that yes, he had been dreaming, and no, he had not yet given Martha an answer.

"Martha!" he echoed, blasting a silly grin in her general direction. Time to forget…time to forget… It was a mantra he'd repeated so many, many times, for far too many griefs. You'd think it would be time he got good at actually doing it. But all he could do was flood the memories with words, hoping they drowned in a deluge of loquaciousness. "Odd dream that, not sure where it all came from but I tell you, I'm never eating boysenberry jam again. Mind you, I'm quite relieved that I didn't actually wear the cape; I was that blue and red bloke, the one from the movies! What's he called? Oh, it'll come to me. Did you know, on several planets—even Earth!—there are theories that dreams aren't really dreams, but portals to another world? Silly. I've been to other dimensions, and they're nowhere near that silly. But really, Martha, there were these tiny little clones of me and Rose, and don't ask me what sick and twisted mind would think of something like that, because I'm sure I don't know, and we fed Mini Me jelly babies and you weren't there but Jack was the copy boy…"

Convinced that her alien friend was all right, not to mention having heard the "go the hell away" signal in the name Rose, Martha sighed, rolling her eyes fondly as she left the Doctor babbling on to himself about his dream, going off to prepare for the day. Honestly, did he even have a bedroom? Probably better that she didn't go down that path of thought, but really. He was going to break his back sleeping like that! Although, granted, this was the first time in the months of knowing him that she'd even seen him sleep, so maybe it was his once-a-decade cat nap.

"Batman!" the Doctor concluded happily as Martha turned the corner into the TARDIS's cavernous halls, "That's who I was. I was Batman!"

_Another universe…_

In a Hyde Park littered with newspapers stamped "Daily Galaxy," the Lord of Time who'd been raised to think of himself as John Smith found himself quite pleasantly wrapped in his beautiful partner's amorous arms, basically having the hell snogged out of him. He couldn't quite seem to remember how he'd got there, or how he'd ended up with his mouth being joyously molested by a woman with whom he'd secretly been in love since the day they'd met.

But he'd worry about it later.

_Fin._

**A.N.: Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this story, with a special thanks going out to the unlogged-in reviewers who I couldn't reply to individually. Every comment made me grin like a loon. **


End file.
